


I never meant for this to mean a thing

by thxws (monaps)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Hale Fire, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Blood Magic, Creeper Peter, Gen, Hale Family Feels, Hurt Derek, Hurt Stiles, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Manipulative Peter, Nemeton, Protection Magic, Sacrifice, The Hale Pack - Freeform, Time Travel, Young Derek
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-20
Updated: 2013-10-20
Packaged: 2017-12-29 22:30:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1010877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monaps/pseuds/thxws
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All it takes to complete the ritual is a sacrifice. Stiles doesn't say anything about it to anyone he is leaving behind, doesn't do anything until he's sure Derek is on his way out of town, his loft cleared out and bags long packed. He allows his beaten down body to slide freely into ice cold water and doesn't acknowledge tears streaking down his cheeks at the loss he can taste at the back of his throat. It's not the first time he's doing that—not the first time he's killing himself—and the cold settling into his bones is nothing but a passing thought, the sound of ice cubes hitting each other surprisingly loud to his ears, and then—then he lets go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I never meant for this to mean a thing

**Author's Note:**

> *'We are the lost people standing' [Bastille - Get Home]
> 
> —  
> This story won't have your usual linear timeline. I won't go from past to present in the same chapter but expect that there WILL be chapters about and with present that explain technicalities and give background to what happened and why Stiles is doing what he's doing. There is a reason for everything and it may not make sense at the time but it will as the story goes. 
> 
> The first few chapters will contain bits from following episodes:  
> S03E08 (Derek)  
> S03E11-12 (Stiles)

***

**Even the most brilliant plans fall apart under the weight of humanity.**

Stiles knows better than to believe in miracles. He believes in himself and his sharp mind, in his own pair of hands and feet, and always in his father. At times he believes in the pack, in what it could be, would be, if everyone just decide to accept themselves and each other as he accepts them. Some mornings he believes in Scott, hopes for the brother he still barely has to look back at him and see all the cracks he can't smooth over anymore; some mornings all of his trembling belief is laid on Derek, his forever there presence, silent comfort, and habit to catch him when he's tripping over. On days when sun is nowhere in sight and he has trouble breathing, he believes Lydia will breathe with and for him, and even when he's choking and she's not there—her voice just a far away memory, something he can't grasp with his fingers—he can touch his lips and think that's not true. Whenever he needs it, when he's at his lowest and when his hope is fading and heart is too slow to bother beating, he believes in his mother and wishes for a moment longer to hold onto her hand before the breath she desperately holds on leaves her lungs forever.

There are times, mostly nights, where he doesn't believe in anything at all and all that _is_ is wrong and falling apart around him, corroding at the edges like the life is an acid threatening to eat him whole.

Stiles believes—except when he doesn't, when there is nothing left to believe into and desperation is all that he has.

 

*

He's in the woods. Stiles knows that much because there is nothing quite as effective in waking him up as dew covered moss—he refuses to refer to it as anything else but slime though, because seriously, thousand times ew—and even with thick fog stopping him from seeing more than a feet ahead, he knows that sky and he recognizes those trees. In a way. Vaguely. Whatever else feels off, he knows he wakes up in the woods and he knows he shouldn't be there. The only thing he has trouble figuring out is why.

His eyes search around for a familiar marker, for anything that would point him in the right direction and out of there but there is nothing. Those are not their trees, not the ones Derek marked, and that makes his heart beat faster. He's not at the verge of panic yet but he's confused and there is something that tells him he knows something, has to know what's going on even if he _doesn't_ really—a feeling, solid and secure, rooted deep in his chest. He takes comfort out of it and turns more to the left, inching closer to whatever the thread he feels but can't see is pulling him toward.

There are voices. It's hard to pinpoint the right direction and echoes are not helping, but he hears people. A group of people in the woods at night while the full moon is big and seems a breathe away means only one thing. It barely makes his own breath hitch anymore, not when it comes to humans he _knows_ how to handle. He's good at evading and he keeps in shadows, his feet light on the ground, trained to sneak up on the werewolf and finding it no challenge to do so with hunters closing in. Despite his skill, he is wary of his surroundings, uncomfortable with not knowing every root and the shape of bark under his fingertips.

When the branch behind his back cracks, he's ready to bolt but for some reason his legs won't move how he wants them to. As if he's waiting for something to happen, as if this is it—this is his mission in life—he has to wait and fulfill whatever the fate throws at him. He's moving again before he notices, his feet confidently following the path he knows nothing about but he wants to go so he goes. No reason and no explanation, entirely voluntary though.

And just like that, his heart is beating faster in full blown panic, in _fear_. He's running but he's not, he's tripping over his feet but he's not, he's scrapping his elbows and knees with each fall but he is NOT. It is not his heart that's close to bursting, it is not his body that's running faster than his human legs could carry him—it's not him but he feels it as it happens, feels the thrumming and sizzle of magic under his sweaty skin and he's shaking, _shaking_ , **shaking**.

The voices are coming closer and he's going in the wrong direction. Towards instead of away. Running in the same direction the lights and chatter are coming from, to men approaching at alarming speed. He's still in the dark, his breath coming out in small puffs of air clearly visible even to his very human eyes. His sweaty body shivers, chills pulsating up his spine in a way that would worry him any other day but doesn't at that moment, and he picks up his pace for a reason he can't explain but just knows is right and purposeful.

Stopping out of the blue shocks him but his body obviously runs on its own schedule and doesn't require his input or running commentary. In a way he is grateful but he still wonders, briefly, if this is a spell and he's being controlled. He dismisses it mostly because he can't feel anything malicious behind it but its there. Now when he's aware it's clearly there but feels like his own, warms him from inside and makes him feel strong and safe.

His eyes widen when few hunters pass him by. They're so close he can smell their cheap aftershave, feel it wash over him in a cloud of suffocating mist. That's not all he feels. There is a string of something solid connecting him to half-magic close by and there is a tug, stinging little tug that pulls him in another direction, turns him around like a puppet. Like someone decided to suddenly change their course and he's meant to follow close after or towards to. He's not sure and he doesn't particularly care as long as he's not walking to any hunter and asking for a lighter. That would definitely make him reconsider his ability to cast on himself, no doubt about it.

What he stumbles upon is a maze of trees, thick and digging into his sides and thighs, his flailing arms. Stubbornly scratching at him and demanding attention in ways that make him feel violated, and he has to bite off a groan that threatens to escape him. No way he can afford a slip like that when the woods are crawling with both hunters and werewolves—and yes, he knows there are some of them too. The only reason they're not visible to him is because they don't want to be while hunters use it to corral wolfs into corner. Not that it works with any sane or experienced wolf but they probably stumble onto rogues on regular basis for that to turn into practice.

Being pulled around slowly catches up to him and he can feel his body slowing down and calming in a way he can't explain. It's nice but it's also a weird thing. More like that's all part of the plan and less his own doing. Less his own anything. It comes as no surprise when the hairs on the back of his neck and his arms stand up, and he's almost bracing for collision before he's even aware he's doing it.

And there he is—a kid practically launching himself over the clearing and stumbling over his feet at the sight of him before falling down face first. He obviously lands softer than it looks. Stiles can tell, just as he can tell the kid is a werewolf. Clear as day, no questions about it. That's when their eyes meet, for a moment only before they slide right over him, and Stiles follows the look over his shoulder to the blinking light of what looks like a high tech staff buried in the ground. The kid doesn't like something about it judging from the way he covers his eyes and it takes a second for Stiles to recognize it for what it is and what it's doing. _Chris uses the same kind to..._

Stiles takes four steps towards it and presses the button on top to turn it off. Easy and quick. Unfortunately, not quick nor nearly fast enough for whoever is approaching not to notice his shadow.

Another werewolf stumbles onto clearing and Stiles is positive, or at least hopes, that they're after him and not the kid. He's not even thinking when he sees the kid getting up before he grabs his wrist and tugs once, twice, and then just puts his full weight into it and drags the kid with him. Keeping him in front and shielded when he finally hears the first hunter calling after the werewolf few feet behind them. Stiles refuses to look back. He is not Scott to think he can save everyone but his magic recognizes the kid as important in a way he would never question so he takes him with him even when arrows start flying. His hold on the wrist tightens and turns grounding—even more so when the werewolf behind them falls—blunt nails digging into warm skin on the kid's pulse point.

“Come on, wolfling.” His voice is rough and breaking and the kid eyes him in a way that's familiar but at the same time not really. “There is a warehouse at the edge of the town. You can't miss it, it's very Gotham City.” Stiles knows that as sure as he knows his father's forever present habit of sneaking junk food into his diet when he's not looking. “I need to distract them but...” He pulls the keys out of his pocket, and those are Derek's keys and they should be in Derek's back pocket, but they're clearly not and things in his mind start flowing at unnatural speed when he tucks them in the kid's palm and urges him to GO. “You have to run. Now! GO!!!”

The kid surprisingly enough obeys and Stiles is left standing still with a smile, watching him go and disappear in the fog. Things inside of him settle. He did good, he did what he has to.

When the arrow pierces his shoulder, he's half aware that's something he has to take too. If the gun in his hand feels like it should be there and he doesn't remember pulling it out of his ankle holster—well, some things in life happen like they're magical.  
  
  


He shoots and he doesn't miss.


End file.
